


Three Points

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: English Premier League, Espanyol, Gen, La Liga, Philosophy, Southampton, real madrid - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 03:43:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9053833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: Wherein José Mourinho gives Mauricio Pochettino key advice that’s stayed with him during the years.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to rechargeable battery for telling me to finish the ending so I could post this already. Happy Christmas, everyone.

_“For me, José Mourinho is The Special One”_ \- Mauricio Pochettino November 2016

 

**December 2016**

**Manchester United 1- 0 Tottenham Hotspur**

Mauricio Pochettino folded his arms across his chest, his mouth set in a tilt of a line, counting down the end of the stoppage time in his head. 

_Cinco, quatro, tres, dos, un----_

Three sharp blasts of the whistle. 

A beat of silence before a roar reverberated through the Theatre of Dreams, making the air tremble around him. From the corner of his eye he caught Mourinho raising his fists in triumph, his mouth stretched open as he shouted his delight in his technical area. 

Eleven times. 

The statistic made Mauricio Pochettino fume, his eyes on Dele and Harry half leaning against/ half supporting each other in deflated exhaustion. His eyes narrowed as Eric stepped on the field, form swathed in the oversized inky jacket with the Spurs logo. Eric hugging his teammates, speaking a word or two to each one. Stopped at Dele, and the smiles they exchanged strained with frustration as they shook their heads at each other. 

Eleven times, Mauricio thought again. 

Eleven times he’d faced José Mourinho, including one final. 

One win. 

One draw. 

Nine losses. 

“ _Mauricio_ ,” and that was José, smile as wide and bright as a Colgate ad, his arms wide open as if he wanted to hug the world. Laugh lines fanned out from the edges of his eyes now squinted with amusement, his hair pewter instead of salt and pepper. José wore it cropped against his skull now like a shaggy skullcap, instead of the longer, sleeker waves he sported in Spain. 

Before today, José cut a frustrated figure on the sidelines: shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, shadow eyed, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Instead of a sleek Armani pea coat of the past, his form encased in a puffy jacket, which exaggerated his proportions with each movement, making him look like a bulky wounded animal, as he caged to and fro, head down and kicking at the chalk markings with his shoes. 

With a win, José now back to his charming best, his smile making him vital, his win years younger. 

Mauricio felt a slight stab of resentment, because he wanted to leave José frustrated on his watch as well, even if it had been a draw. He would have taken a point right now, instead of a loss. 

But, he knew, this was football. A game filled with much complication and heartbreak. It gave you much and took even more away at times. 

“José,” Mauricio mirrored his friend’s movements, their embrace strong, breaths warm on each other’s faces, a pleasant sensation in contrast to the chilled air of North England. José gently patted Mauricio’s cheek with his palm, his smile beatific. Mauricio’s hand spanning the scruff of José’s neck, the balls of his finger tips sinking into Jose’s jacket. 

“Good game,” José greeted, his voice shades of magnanimous and smug. 

“It’s only a good game if you win,” with his other hand, Mauricio squeezed Jose’s arm, feeling the thick layer of the jacket against his fingertips. 

José raised his eyebrows as the comment hit home. Smirked. “I win. Next time, who knows?”

“Next time,” Mauricio promised. 

José swanned off, calling to Toni Jiménez, Mauricio’s goalkeeping coach. 

“Toni! Toni!” José shouted with a wave, as he ran towards Toni, leaving Mauricio behind. 

Mauricio slipped his hand into his pocket, clenching his fist around the biro that lived there. 

He watched José as he hurried away, hearing his distinct accent as he joked with Toni - “ _Has aprendido inglés todavía? O es sólo Mauricio y Jesús?_ ”

“ _Eeehhhh... poco más_ ,” Toni laughed, as José linked their arms together as they walked towards the far side of the court. “I speak little by little. Not everyone is you, _Señor Traductor_ ”

“Ah,” José waved off Toni’s comment. “Your English has improved, by much. _Tú accento es hermoso._ ”

Mauricio could feel Toni’s face burning with embarrassment from where he stood, as he flashed Mourinho his middle finger with a grin, “ _Toma_.”

It’s funny, Mauricio thought as José and Toni exchanged another hug before they parted, Jose’s words from yesteryear echoing in his head. 

_“A hug for before the match and a hug after the match,” José said when they faced each other in Spain, “football is football, and friendships are bigger than football.”_

**2010 Casa Abuela, La Latina**

“Do you-?” José Mourinho raised his eyebrows as he gestured to the wine bottle set on the table between them both by the waiter. 

“Yes,” Mauricio nodded behind steepled fingers, noting with approval at the wine was at least red, not white. 

“In England,” José began, as he waved the waiter away with a smile, “after each match, it’s tradition for the opposing managers to invite you to stay behind to share a drink.” 

He filled their wine glasses himself; the dark, inky, heavy liquid tumbling and gurgling into the bowl of the glass.

Mauricio frowned, wondering what he was doing here, and why he’d said yes to being here. Or more importantly, why José Mourinho chose to invite him for a drink after the match. 

**Thirty minutes ago before dinner at Casa Abuela, Estadio Bernabeu, 2010**

As the whistle blew signalling the end of the match, the Madristas cheered, clapped and waved. 

In the modern colosseum that was the Bernabeu, Mauricio Pochettino rocked back and forth on his heels as he puffed out a breath from his mouth, which momentarily lifted his fringe off his forehead, before it flapped against it again. One more puff of breath and Mauricio raked his fingers through his hair, squeezing his eyes closed with frustration, feeling the tug of his hair from his scalp as he lifted his fringe from his forehead and ears.

Jesús and Miguel got to their feet as a unit, as they all walked the short distance to the Real Madrid seats, shaking hands and hugging their opposition counterparts. 

Jesús and Miguel and Toni knew the drill by now. They were the ones who gathered the players together, now smarting from the four nil score at the home of the Bernabeu. They knew that Mauricio needed a few minutes to stay behind, look out at the field, doing key replays of the match again in his head, seeing key areas of failure. 

Where the triggers of his press failed to fire and -

“Mauricio Pochettino, yes?” 

Mauricio looked down at his tracksuit clad arm, felt the touch. Noted the fine fabric of the light grey suit, and raised his gaze to face José Mourinho. The one that the English papers called _The Special One_ to the amusement of the Spanish press here. 

José Mourinho Félix - the translator who came good in the end. Being _El Mister_ of Real Madrid suited him to the ground. The position of Real Madrid called for a manager with an elegant air about him, and for this, Mourinho suited; his skin a deep olive, his hair carefully cut and styled, teeth white against the swarthy tones of his skin. His suits fine, his manner arrogant and impetuous. 

“Yes, I am,” Mauricio nodded, shifting his focus from the field to the man in front of him, as he offered his hand and José shook it. His handshake firm, and warm. 

“We met earlier, when you came to Espanyol at the start of the season, no? And now tonight, before-” Jose’s voice trailed off, and it might have been the fact of Mauricio being unable to hide his wince as if he’d been hit, and he had been. 

Four nil, with Real Madrid holding the three points. 

José waved the result away, the light catching the plain wedding band on his finger. Mauricio grimaced again as if punched, because three points were precious to his team at the end of the table. The difference between a comfortable cushion in La Liga, or looking at a scrap in the second tier. For Mourinho, it was just another three points, and Mauricio promised himself that one day, he’d be in the position to brush off three points in the way that José did. 

But not today, he thought, pride smarting. 

Not today. 

“Are you leaving for Barcelona tonight?” 

“No,” Mauricio shook his head. “It is too late, we’ll be looking to leave tomorrow, around seven.”

“Good. So you will have a drink with me, after you settle your team in. Yes?”

“I-” Mauricio started. 

“My treat, we will meet outside in the carpark in fifteen minutes.”

***

José was not one to be denied, as he got them a table at a restaurant in the elegant, shadowy neighbourhood of La Latina. _Casa Abuela_ was a quaint little bar/eatery boasting traditional rustic _Madrileno_ cuisine; its interior proudly boasting its intentions with oversized jamon hocks pinned against a tiled wall.

They sat at a table at the back of the restaurant set in a nook, which felt like a cupped hand around you, its dim lights and lattices shielding you from everyone else, like its secret. 

“You share a drink with a fellow manager after he’s just beaten you?” Mauricio shrugged his shoulders, raking his fingers through his fringe that kept falling into his face, promising himself he’d get a haircut when he had the time. “It is- the English eh?” he finished, “they are strange, everyone in Europe knows this.”

“They are, that’s what happens when you’re an island separate from the rest of us, eh? _Loco_.” José agreed, before reaching for his glass. Took a sip of his wine, and gestured to Mauricio. “Drink,” he ordered, with the air of someone who expected to be obeyed, although he softened the request with a smile. “It is _Tignanello_.”

Still suspicious and wondering why Mourinho chose him as an audience of one, Mauricio tried the wine. Delighted at its fruit forward, full bodied flavour, with hints of dried cherry and plum bouncing on his tongue. Yes, it tasted like the sort of wine that would entice José Mourinho to give his endorsement to, all class. 

“It is good,” Mauricio freely admitted, topping up his glass. 

“Good,” José nodded, “shall we order?”

**Southampton vs Chelsea, Jan 02, 2014**

_“And there it is, the match is over, Mourinho’s copybook unblemished, as he leaves Southampton with three points. Mourinho and Pochettino hug it out. What did you think, Lee?”_

_“Chelsea was just too good. With this win, Chelsea are now two points behind Arsenal. They say that you should never return home; but Mourinho seems to be putting paid to that maxim with his time back in the league. Look at that hug between Pochettino and Mourinho. Pochettino knows that he lost the match, right? Shouldn’t someone tell him?”_

_“Ha, ha, ha! Mourinho and Pochettino have known each other from Mourinho’s stint in La Liga when he coached Real Madrid, Martin. Nine matches and Pochettino has yet to snatch three points from Mourinho.”_

_“Next time. In this league, you never know, Alan. There’s always a next time”_

***

“Look at you,” José’s smile slow and sly, laugh lines around his eyes creasing with amusement as he waved his hand in Mauricio’s direction, the action taking in both Mauricio and the room they were in.

Both now seated in Mauricio’s office, his desk between them both. The office bit bigger than the one in Espanyol; the windows opening up to the practice fields outside, now deserted and empty under the floodlights. Inside, the office modest, because Southampton was a club who rightfully spent all their money on their ring fenced academy. 

The dark panelled walls had pictures of the club and its crest in various stages of design. Although the days were getting longer, January still had short days, the office illuminated by the warm lighting from the lamp on the desk. 

Mauricio shrugged, accepting that it was his time to pour a glass of wine for them to share. He was the host, after all. 

“Look at me,” Mauricio rolled his eyes self mockingly as he lowered himself in his chair, behind his desk, the foot of his wine glass standing by his fingertips. “Look at us, sharing wine, like English managers do.”

“Have you shared a glass of wine with anyone else?” José asked, as he sipped at the liquid in his glass, raised an eyebrow, his face bright with his delight. “ _Tignanello Toscana_? Ah, Mauricio, you are what the Americans call ‘a quick study’. This wine is magnificent.”

“Not many people, no,” Mauricio answered his question. “My English...”

“Is not as incomplete as you make it out to be,” José raised his eyebrows, full and dark, even with his hair the colour of pewter, and his complexion three shades paler due to the lack of sun in England. 

“I do not know the press yet,” Mauricio stroked the edge of the wine glass with his index finger. “Until I do...” he shook his head, trailing off with a _tsk tsking_ sound. 

“What do you think about the English league? A different beast, eh? Are you finding it difficult?”

“It is not as difficult when there’s money available for all teams to do things,” Mauricio answered after some thought, before sipping at his glass of wine. “There is still an established order to things, even in this league; of bigger teams coming for the best players of the smaller teams, but at least the money is fairer here.”

“Southampton is a club that is known for developing its players and selling them on. After Espanyol, you think you’d be accustomed to this. Some clubs...” José took a breath, his tone as delicate as Mauricio had heard it - “their _raison d’etre_ is to train and sell on to more established clubs. You and your team mould the players, beat out all their mistakes, and then sell them to clubs that burnish, allow them to shine.”

Mauricio drummed his fingers against the desktop, his eyes on Jose. Satisfied after a win, his dimples creasing his cheeks every time he smiled, and he smiled often. The Special one, a Champions League winner twice, title wins with other venerable clubs. 

Or if not venerable clubs like Real Madrid, rich and powerful ones like Chelsea. 

“But I -” Mauricio started, the words flooding his tongue ready to spill the emotions in his heart, _I want to keep the players I have developed, I want to see-_

“But?” José prompted, and something told Mauricio to keep his ambition secret, even from Jose. 

“I will try and say yes and speak to more managers in the game. Even though half of them are foreign-” Mauricio couldn’t help but to smile, “everyone speaks English. It is amazing, no?”

“It helps,” José agreed. “Especially when it comes to pre season tours in America and China with your club. Not that you have that problem, of course.”

Mauricio narrowed his eyes as he reached for his wine glass. “Of course.” 

 

**2010 - Madrid**

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?” Mauricio asked, giving the waiter an appreciative nod as he set out their meal before them in covered clay dishes. His eyes almost fluttering shut in pleasure as the aroma of the stew wafted from his uncovered bowl. Mauricio sipped the piping hot liquid from the side of his spoon and nodded approvingly. The _Codico Madrileño_ as good as Josévouched it to be. 

“You _played_ Real Madrid,” José answered, dipping his spoon in the highly flavoured stew. “Some teams will send out their _cantera_ against us, or give up at the second goal and cruise for the last ten minutes. Your team fought to the end, as if you were an English team. You did not think you would have beaten us, surely?”

“This is football, eh?” Mauricio explained in between bites of the delicious chorizo and vegetable stew, unoffended by Mourinho’s query. “You must be brave. If you aren’t brave, why play? In Brazil, they say you cannot be lucky in football if you’re unhappy. It is the same for bravery, no? There a phrase in English about brave attracting the fortune, yes?” 

_“Fortune favours the brave”_ , José corrected, saying it in English, and then repeating the translation in Spanish. 

“Well, yes,” Mauricio nodded his understanding as he continued, “If you cannot believe in yourself to win, what makes you think it will come to you---?”

“Yes,” José nodded, his dimples winking his cheeks, the smile they shared conspiratorial in its understanding. 

**May 2014: Brasserie Gustave, London**

“Tottenham Hotspur.”

“Yes,” Mauricio grinned, because he couldn’t stop beaming, brimming with eagerness with his new appointment.

José insisted on the restaurant as a celebration after he’d heard the news. Brasserie Gustave. An eatery filled with an ambient light one never expected to find in London. It possessed an almost lemon tinge to it; as if it had been shipped from the South of France in spring and left to bloom, filling the room with it The dishes presented on white plates with navy trim; the food aesthetically and gastronomically pleasing. 

Jose, though, knew what appealed to Mauricio as an Argentine. The promise of meat and wine, and he generously offered the meal as his treat. _The beef is delightful and the wines are worthy of a glug - what more can you ask for?_

Mauricio poked at his Onglet in shallot sauce, more excited at the challenge in front of him than anything. Tottenham Hotspur, a club well known in Argentina from the 1980s with fellow country men like Osvaldo Ardiles. Even with the troubles around Argentina and Great Britain and The Falklands in 1982, Tottenham Hotspur had played host to Argentine talent, a rarity in the English league largely because other Argentine players chose to go to Spain and Italy instead due to the language and cultural similarities. 

For this, and many reasons, he couldn’t say no to the project offered. 

“It is a good club,” José nodded. “If these clubs were to have identities, say, the way how the English papers write about them, I would say Tottenham is middle class, trying to be one of the big boys, but thwarted by others.”

“And Chelsea?” Mauricio asked, more to needle his friend than anything. Everyone knew what the supporters of the English Premier League thought about Chelsea. Being in England for two seasons with Southampton, Mauricio keenly aware of what the supporters thought about José. From their chants of wondering if Mourinho bought his coat at a Matalon instead of an Armani, and their derision of his ‘boring’ football. 

“ _Ach_ ,” José gave a dismissive gesture at the comment. His head turning away momentarily as he made a waving notion with his hand. Even now, in a restaurant in the quiet time, Jose’s actions deliberate and set to maximum effect; an arrogant manager on the sidelines, knowing that each action would be beamed across one billion screens in the world, and studied with the same intensity like a Kabuki performance. 

“They call the club _plastic_. But that is an excuse for old and under performing clubs like Liverpool who moan about Chelsea having no history, when football is about the now, and the future.”

“But each club has its own history, _no_ ? Supporters are going to be sensitive to that.”

“Supporters want to win,” José punctuated each word with a soft knuckled rap on the table, his tones as final as a judge’s ruling. “Anyone who hangs on to _history_ and style of play instead of looking at their trophy cabinet is a fool.”

Mauricio laughed, as he tucked into his Onglet and nodded at the flavour. The seasoning robust, the meat tender. Washed down with the wine specially chosen by the restaurant's in house Sommelier. José a man who had brought him many things with their association, and this wine, with hints of hay and jammy berry notes being another one of them. 

“There _is_ something to be said about tradition,” Mauricio pushed back, because he liked sparring with José, although he was mindful about spoiling their meal with an argument. “About supporters wanting a style of play, of their history. You managed Real Madrid, no? _Los Meringues_ were proud of their history.”

“And at the end of the day, they wanted trophies,” Mauricio found himself at the end of José’s gaze under a fringe of thick black lashes, his eyes hard and cool as moss agate. The experience with Real Madrid still made him flinch, his wounds barely scabbing over. “History is cold comfort if you have no trophies. Projects are meaningless if there are no trophies at the end of it. I have said this before.”

***

**2010**

“Bah, history,” José continued, holding forth as Mauricio mopped up the savoury gravy of the stew with crusty bread. For this alone, Mauricio was glad that he’d left his playing days behind. A meal this rich, with bread this good and lashings of wine, he wouldn’t have been able to participate in this fully, not two days before the next training session. 

“If clubs want history, they can write a book. If they want wins,” José jerked his thumb in his direction, curling his lip as he shot a wink in Mauricio’s direction. “They get me.”

“For you are _The Special One_.”

“You’re a joker, Mauricio,” Jose’s tone now mildly censorious. “The English press have no imagination.”

“Do you miss it?”

“The English Premier League?” José frowned, as if struck by a dark thought. “Yes, I do. Even though it’s a league with much complication. Every match over there is an ambush, and there is no respecter of venerable teams. You would like it there, I think. The way how you set your teams up to play.”

“I’m happy where I am.”

“But not for long,” José leaned forward, grabbing for Mauricio’s wrist, his eyes a deep olive green in the warm light. “You are ambitious. You are brave. You would not set out your teams like you did against me tonight if you were not both. You will leave, because you cannot stay due to the structure of the teams here and the lack of money. You will eventually fail where you are, because your cupboard is getting increasingly bare as you sell your best players to bigger teams. When you do, and if an English team calls, you need to say yes.”

Mauricio’s eyes fell on his hand, Jose’s fingers splayed across his wrist and forearm, his fingers warm against Mauricio’s skin. He swallowed hard; for a brief, hot minute he resented Mourinho for bringing it up, the fact of their disparate fortunes. 

José the prince to his pauper, plying him with drink and wine and advice as if he were a project. 

“I do not-” he kept his voice even, though his blood burned hot. “My English isn’t that good.”

“That has not stopped lesser managers from trying,” José leaned back in his chair, taking his hand away. “Football management is a game of chance and luck as much as skill, Mauricio. Listen to me, my friend, English is not a difficult language to learn.”

“You are _The Traductor_ ,” Mauricio replied, using the moniker given to José Mourinho by the Catalan press, although they were more mocking and less respectful than Mauricio with the honorific, but the sentiment stood. “Languages to you are like tactics, no? To break down formations into the bare essentials and use them to your ends.” 

“English speakers are easy to please. You make an effort, and they giggle with pleasure like school girls, especially if it’s with a latin accent. Players in the English league are accustomed to foreign managers and their clumsy English. Now, there are good reasons not to go the the English league. They fall in love with a manager too quickly and turn on him in the same breath; their press coverage is as yellow as piss, and the money and the pressure can be ruinous. Christmas fixtures can be a gift and a curse and there is no time to take a breath until the end of the season, not to mention, the weather is shit. But English- and the lack of speaking it- is not a reason to say no.”

 

**October 03, 2012**

No matter how much times Mauricio came to the Bernabeu, it never ceased to amaze him the grandeur of it. The mocking din of the supporters outside as they expected their team to decimate visitors at their home. The Bernabeu more a colosseum of football to dispatch their rivals than a theatre of dreams. 

Mauricio’s players already out of the changing room and out on the field warming up. Mauricio raked his fingers through his hair, his shock of hair falling across his eyes and ears, and he promised himself (again) that he’d get a trim soon. 

Squared his shoulders, pursed his lips and getting his game face on, Mauricio walked outside, blankly staring ahead, hearing the -

“Mauricio!” 

“Jose!” Mauricio grinned, his mood brightening. Jose’s face wreathed in smiles, as he stepped away from his assistants standing in the background. Aitor Karanka in the Real Madrid Adidas kit, white with black tri-stripes along the shoulders and sleeves, a folder of tactics tucked under his arm, flashed a friendly smile and nod in Mauricio’s direction, and Mauricio responded in turn.

Football, like other professional industries, only had smaller circles the higher you climbed, and Aitor and himself had shared lessons during their slog in getting the UEFA Pro Licence qualification a few years ago. But Aitor faded into the background like a planet to Jose’s star power, José's smile having enough wattage to fire the power for Real Madrid’s ground.

“ _Mi amigo_ ,” José greeted, as he initiated their hug. They clung to each other in a brief, tight pulse of an embrace. 

By this time, they’d known each other well enough for Mauricio to tick off certain Mourinhoisms José engaged with on match day. His face unshaven, his jaw a fuzz of steel grey that dragged against Mauricio’s cheek as their faces pressed together briefly. Jumper navy and knitted in a fine jersey, the air around him scentless, for he wore no cologne on match days. _It’s never about me,_ José shrugged off Mauricio’s observations once when he asked. _I make myself invisible so that my tactics are visible._ Which, Mauricio knew, was not wholly true. 

“José,” Mauricio said as they separated, José slipping his arm through his, like young boys on their way home from school, as they skipped down the gangplank towards the field, past the bouncers in their orange high-vis vests, the noise of the spectators already at fever pitch.

“A good matchup this time, eh? Although on paper, you might not win.”

“Football is not played on paper, José.”

José laughed, leaning into Mauricio, their shoulders bumping into each other, his hair momentarily tickling Mauricio's cheek. “You’ve always had _huevos_ , Mauricio. You’ve come to nick my three points?” 

“Those points per game are orphans looking for a forever home, Jose, they don’t care who comes for them, as long as they are claimed.”

Jose’s laugh appreciative and sly, as he gave Mauricio a look under the fringe of his lashes. “Come and get them, Mauricio, let us see if they are there for you.”

The game ended three nil, advantage to Real Madrid. It made it seven matches lost, with a deficit of sixteen goals. 

Not that Mauricio counted.

**2014**

“Tottenham Hotspur, it’s better than I thought,” Jesús said, walking around the expansive pitches with Mauricio, Toni and Miguel. At Mauricio’s request, before the second interview with Levy, he’d asked to tour the facilities with his brain trust, the three who came with him from Espanyol to Southampton and now, maybe Tottenham Hotspur - if he said yes. 

The Enfield complex even better than what his research made it out to be; from the four practice match pitches to the First Team Match pitch dedicated to the first team training alone, spanning the seventy seven acre complex. The academy talent head, McDermott, someone who came across as steady, as someone he could work with. The buildings sleek with steel and glass, the silhouette of the cockerel everywhere.

“No, no, no. Tell me why we cannot want it,” Mauricio slid his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels as he tilted his face to the sky, not surprised to feel the wind on his face like a sharp slap, because it was still March. 

“Daniel Levy can be... complicate,” Miguel volunteered. Not as quick to speak as Jesús was, and spent more time metaphorically shooting down any ideas Mauricio put forward from player choice to formation. But that was his job in their little quartet, to be the cool agnostic to their frenzied religion of ideas. 

“Twelve managers in ten years,” Jesús joined in, “ _Hostia,_ it’s almost as bad as La Liga, no? I thought the English league was the place that you got time to develop a project?”

“ _Basta_ ,” Toni shook his head with narrowed eyes, giving Mauricio the cold eyed stare that made a lot of forwards stumble and fumble their shots wide when one on one back in his playing days. “Let’s stop this dance, Mauricio, for you’ve already said yes. Not to Señor Levy - not yet- but you’ve said yes. On paper, there’s a spine, and the goalies, we can work with them, no? The defence can be magnificent.”

“The team is underperforming,” Miguel continued, loyal to the remit appointed to him as any task dog. “If we -”

“They’ll still sell your players,” Jesús fired another salvo. “We are higher up the food chain, but we are still prey.”

“To Real Madrid,” Toni countered. “Real Madrid, Barcelona - that is like a calling no? If Real Madrid and Barcelona call you, you can’t say no, for to go is an honour, no matter how it ends. Mourinho will know about that, eh?”

“Toni, my friend,” Mauricio leaned forward, slipping his hands out of his pocket as he gave Toni a light combo one, two punches on the shoulder. “That’s not what I asked you for.”

“It’s a good club, with a rich history, this Tottenham Hotspur,” Toni absently rubbed at the spot where Mauricio hit him. “It’s what you’ve always wanted, Mauricio; a project where you can build a team in your image, without having to worry if the players will be sold before you want them to go. It’s a good club, and it is strange, you like the country, although the weather is terrible.”

Jesús and Miguel exchanged glances with a shake of their head and knowing smiles. Ever so often, Mauricio and one of them would engage in these conversations, with one of them as the antagonist in the situation Mauricio painted for himself. Toni was the one now, his eyes flashing with it. 

“You like the goalkeeper,” Mauricio countered, not giving anything away. 

“Lloris is quality, like half of the squad.”

“The other half though? It will be three transfer windows before we can be sure of our team, and I haven’t looked at the academy yet.”

“If we start now, it will be two,” Toni shot back. 

“Tottenham Hotspur is a bigger club than Espanyol, Southampton. It’s... big, no? It’s the biggest stage so far.” 

“Then we’ll grow into our roles, like we always do, eh?” Miguel said, his easy acquiescence catching Mauricio off guard. 

“Say yes, Mauricio, like you want to,” Jesús’s eyes and voice solemn as the comment. “You will have us eating flies before long, especially since you know the answer.”

“Also, with a better team in this league, we will definitely steal three points from Mourinho, eh? He’s taken enough from us over the years.”

“Yes,” Mauricio laughed. Not that he ever doubted the choice he’d made to take the meeting with Daniel Levy, or the fact that he’d say yes, but to have a team to fashion in his own image, and to battle José on more egalitarian terms attracted him. José, he knew, would have appreciated the ambition. 

 

**2011**

“Philosophy,” José muttered, as their plates cleared. He waved away offers of dessert, but Mauricio decided on _Biscocho_ a creamy Madrid style sponge, a hybrid between a pound cake and an English pudding. “Everyone thinks it is everything. It’s a word meaning nothing. In football management, your philosophy should be winning.”

“Is not that a philosophy, anyway, Jose? A way of thinking?”

“It’s the only way. Everything in the middle, getting rid of players, getting chairmen and _socios_ on side. Let me tell you something about this management _malarkey_ ,” José said, as Mauricio filed another English word away in his growing vocabulary. At times, when José got heated, his excellent Spanish failed him, and he reached for other languages for words that suited his emotional needs better. The French terms, Mauricio understood quite well, from his sojourn at PSG, but English - it was a language that astonished him at times, at how direct it could be, and how aggressive some words were. 

_Malarkey_ Mauricio mouthed the word, telling himself to look up what it meant, just in case José said it again. 

“Listen to me, all it takes are three players to spoil the entire stew you’re trying to cook. If it’s not them, it’s their managers. They will always act up, and that’s fine, no? Players are like horses, able to be trained, but headstrong and wild. That’s fine. But once they bolt, cut them loose.”

“My players are fine.”

“Your club is small,” José snapped, his manner impatient. Mauricio shrugged, because when José was in this mood, with colour high on his cheeks and his eyes flashing, it wasn’t about them, it was about him. 

“You are going to go bigger clubs,” José pushed on, “and I am telling you your future. There will be bigger complications, because the higher you go, that is how it is. Take your time to see how the situation plays out for you. Then, when you have come to a decision, act swiftly, and stand by it.”

**2014**

_Cinco, seis, siete, ocho -_ Mauricio counted mentally, before realising in this moment, he would have to count to one thousand before he calmed down.

In front of him, the Spurs’ dressing room was in an uproar. Players in stages of undress, from kit to towels around their waists. He was surprised to see Ryan Mason jabbing his finger in Emmanuel Adebayor's face, Harry Kane and Andros Townsend standing behind Ryan. Younés shouting in Jan’s direction, Hugo stepping in between them. The rest of the players looking shades of angry, confused or apathetic. 

A sharp blast of a whistle cut through the din, leaving silence in its wake. 

Taking his fingers out of his mouth, Mauricio arrowed in on Ryan, a _chico_ with bright eyes, floppy hair and body as slight as a blade of grass.

“What is going on here?” Mauricio’s voice cold, because after the loss to Newcastle, under his chairman’s nose, he didn’t really need this _bullshit_ right now. 

Emmanuel opened his mouth, ready to plead his case, but Mauricio held up his hand in Emmanuel’s direction, a gesture for silence. 

“Ryan?”

“He invited the Newcastle players to our dressing room, gaffer,” Ryan answered in that strong accent of his. “It’s bad enough that we lost because some of us aren’t doing enough, and he may be our senior, but Younés didn’t even protest and he’s _captain_. That’s not right.”

“Go on.”

“It’s true,” another voice piped up, and that was Harry Kane, another local boy who’d come back from loan, and showed promise in training, but he wasn’t ready for the pitch as yet. “I mean, it’s _our_ dressing room. They shouldn’t be in here.”

“Younés?” 

The shrug of the shoulders and faint smile said enough, and the pang of disappointment caught Mauricio off guard, because captains were the representative of the coach in many ways.

“Ok, you’re captain no more, Younés. Everyone get changed now, and don’t leave until I say so. Ryan, Harry and Andros, I want to see you three in five minutes. ”

Ryan’s eyes popped open, as he looked crestfallen. He swallowed, and nodded. “Yes, gaffer.”

***

Jesús wasn’t one to swear, but when Mauricio put the situation forth to his brain trust, Jesús swore long and fluidly, throwing in some choice English words to boot.

Mauricio didn’t want a team meeting with players talking over each other and making up stories on the spot. Saying goodbye to his evening meal with his family, he’d stayed behind with the rest of his staff as they questioned players in groups of three, made notes, corroborated their findings. He stood by the window of his office, looking out on the floodlit fields, empty of activity, the white lines stark against the grass thrown in shadows of light. 

“I chose the wrong captain,” he said finally, after Jesús had finished swearing, the quiet filling the room as poisonous as carbon dioxide. 

“Do you realise,” Toni looked at the names scribbled on the whiteboard, placed in two columns headed in and out. “Out of a team of twenty five only fourteen seem to understand what we’re trying to do? The others do not care.”

Miguel now seated behind the desk, and with a deep sigh, buried his head in his hands. Mauricio chewed at the cuticle of his pointer finger, the darkness of outside making the double glazed glass acting like a mirror, Miguel, Toni and Jesús looking like a triumvirate of devastation. Miguel with his head on the desk, Toni frowning at the whiteboard, marker in hand, and Jesús, rubbing at his temples with his middle and forefinger, probably thinking about returning to Spain. 

José, Mauricio realised, was right. An envoy from the future. 

Miguel in his own way, was right too. A bigger club, more complication, and he too would have to grow. A big part of growth, was identifying where you went wrong, and taking steps to making it right. 

“As soon as Lloris comes in tomorrow, I will need to speak with him,” Mauricio decided finally. 

“Are you thinking-?”

“Yes, Hugo is our captain, going forward,” Mauricio decided. “I don’t like making a goalkeeper captain, but he is what we need. I made a mistake, and I will correct it tomorrow.”

“And everyone else?”

Mauricio moved from the window, snapping his fingers at Toni, who handed him the marker. His solution as clear as a Math equation, Mauricio made asterisks against the offending names. 

“These will not train with us anymore. I will talk to them too, tell them to start looking for other clubs.”

“Fourteen to sixteen players, even though we have Europa, two cups and the domestic league. _Ay yi yi_ , Mauricio, you have handicapped us.”

Mauricio looked at the names in the ‘trusted’ column, three of them academy grads, a new _chico_ from Portugal, a forward low on confidence, a defender of quality who’d lost his form, and a goalkeeper who flummoxed Toni with his quality. There was a playmaker there, Eriksen, more luxury than steady - and the rest he could jingle a tune from. 

Miguel’s comment was sensible, and again, that’s one of the reasons why Mauricio valued his input, but now wasn’t the time for doubt to set in and rot. Tottenham was already a club rotten with self doubt. It didn’t need anymore, and unbidden, one of José’s gems came to him. 

“ _Fortune favours the brave_ ,” he answered, stepping back from the whiteboard and folded his arms. 

“We will be brave, like we have always been. Our attitude cannot change now, it will never change in the future, no? This is football.”

His three friends shared looks amongst themselves, from raised eyebrows to the roll of shoulders. At the end of it when they all nodded their acceptance, Mauricio felt himself steady, knowing that he had their trust and support. 

“Go home and sleep,” he ordered with a clap of his hands. “We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, no?”

**September 2012**

For the first time since he and José Mourinho had started their meetings, it was Mauricio who showed up to their rendezvous agitated, taking a healthy gulp of the glass of wine José offered.

José, forever in tune to moods, seated at the table, offering him a bit of tapas with olive oil and vinegar that his housekeeper had put on the table before she disappeared. 

This was a twist, seated by the patio of José’s house, overlooking the expanse of green lawn and the swimming pool in the distance, his children and wife out for the day. Mauricio had called him early this morning, asking him for a favour. 

“I need to see you,” he blurted as soon as José answered the phone _Pronto?_ Mauricio himself in a taxi on the way to Barcelona airport, running his free hand through his hair, staring blankly as the taxi sped along. “I am sorry it is at short notice. I know that you have the _Copa Del Rey_ -”

“Friendships are bigger than football, no?” José’s voice came over the phone, “Come and see me, Mauricio. I’ll be here.”

***

“I have to leave.”

“Has it gotten that bad?”

“They keep -” Mauricio began, surprised at how emotional he was getting. On the touchline, he knew how to keep it together, but off the touchline... “They keep selling players, and expecting me to do more, more and more. I do not mind doing more, but how can I do more when the money doesn’t seem to be enough?”

José looked at him over steepled fingers. His face a studied blank, an expression he’d shown more and more as his time at Real Madrid had gotten more tumultuous. If José wasn’t baiting the press, or berating the press, he was holding them at bay. Mauricio sighed, leaned back into his wicker seat with slumped shoulders. 

“I am sorry, José, I realise that you have other things on your mind,” like winning a title, having a march in Champions League, battling Pep Guardiola and Barcelona for honours for starters. 

“Are you open to leaving?”

Mauricio frowned, gulped around the lump in his throat. “I do not think I have a choice,” he answered finally, “I cannot stay, but you know what it is like in La Liga. If I go now, I cannot work with another team until the next season.”

“Forget La Liga, the footballing world is bigger than Spain, Mauricio,” José’s voice sharp to the point of Mauricio flinching. “How is your English?”

“I-” he flushed, embarrassed. “Not as good as it should be.”

“There is a club on the South coast of England, Southampton I think. Word has it that they are looking for a new manager. Someone to work with their academy. They’ve been in the top flight for a year, but they don’t think their manager is good enough for the next step. Are you interested?”

“I-” Mauricio found himself close to choking on his wine. He brought his fist to his mouth, smothering a cross between a hiccup and a burp. _I do not know_ , he wanted to say. _I truly do not know._ But that was a lie, he knew, they both knew. 

“It’s not enough to work hard, Mauricio, but to work well. At Southampton, you’ll have a chance to do both. More than likely, you are already on their black box anyway. You have probably already been scouted, they probably have a file on you, and might get in contact with your lawyer soon enough. But I can put in a word for you, if you want. ”

“I-” Mauricio straightened, glaring at José through narrowed eyes. “I did not come here for that,” he snapped, nerves on edge. 

“You did not come to me for a solution?” José leaned forward as he started helping himself to the tapas dishes. “You think that I'm an _agony aunt_?”

Another one of those words that José used to trip him with again. “I came for advice, I do not want you to think -”

“Mauricio, I want to see if you will ever take three points from me. As long as you are at Espanyol, you will never do that. In the Premier League, perhaps.”

José was not one to eat flies, and something in that sentence made Mauricio stop and think. 

“You are not thinking of returning to the English Premier?”

“It is an option,” José poured himself wine, “life is a hardship without options, and I have many.”

“But you are at Real Madrid. It is an honour to be called, to serve.”

“It is football, Mauricio. The bigger the club, the more acute the complication. When you become _El Mister_ of a big club, we will have this conversation again over a bottle of wine and compare the notes. But first-”

“I have to leave,” and the sadness fell on Mauricio again. 

Espanyol, the club he played for, came back and coached with, mourned over the death of his captain in his first year of managing the club. But - and this he could admit to himself - he wanted more. Especially to be in a position in a club where he could build and take on the likes of Guardiola - and Mourinho- like an equal. 

“If you do not mind, if and it’s a big _if_ \- Southampton ever comes up -”

“I’ll give you a reference.”

“I -” Mauricio shook his head, his laugh half- hysterical at the surreal conversation he was having right now. 

Discussing the probability of a job he had yet to get an offer for in an area he had never heard of; based a country with a treacherous league, where they spoke a language he barely knew, to be in a position to take points from whichever super club José Mourinho would have access to. For all that - _malarkey_? - for the first time since this week, he had some semblance of hope. 

“I do not know what to say.”

“Say nothing. Let us see if you can take three points from me first.”

“The points don’t belong to you,” Mauricio answered, his feelings about this steadfast. “The points are there for whomever takes them.”

José’s eyes now bored as he sipped at his wine. “I never give favours to my friends on the field, Mauricio.”

For all of the warmth in their friendship over the years, José’s hints at the prospect of him wanting favours on the pitch scraped at his soul like sandpaper. 

“I do not want favours, I never have. I want three points.”

“Come and get them, if you can.”

Another thing he would take José giving him then, Mauricio decided, the gift of anger instead of the feeling of uselessness of being despondent. 

**January 01, 2015:**

_Happy New Year, and thank you for joining us to see the class between Tottenham Hotspur and Chelsea, the capital’s foremost London teams. Chelsea, the visitors, as imperious as their colour, the Royal Blue, this against Tottenham Hotspur, white shirt, navy shorts with yellow trim and white socks._

_In this one sided London derby, out of forty five match ups, Spurs have only won three, still smarting from their loss at Chelsea twenty nine days ago. What does 2015 hold for these teams? Tottenham Hotspur will be looking to get into the Champions League, the club weary of Europa. Chelsea, already in the Champions League, are looking to take on the league and the world. Here is Mauricio Pochettino welcoming José Mourinho to White Hart Lane. They know each other from La Liga, and now renew their acquaintance in the Barclays’ Premier League._

“José,” Mauricio opened his arms as he closed the distance to greet his friend and adversary. “Welcome, and Happy New Year.”

“Mauricio,” José greeted, as they hugged warmly, pressing their cheeks briefly against each other before pulling apart. Although the last time they met was about twenty nine days ago, José’s win still smarted. Mauricio felt as if he were on the cusp of something, he could almost taste it. Watched Chelsea team reels until he could do them in his sleep, worked on shape with his players until they were sick to the back teeth of it. But Mauricio wanted it, he wanted to win. 

“Happy New Year, my friend,” José returned the greeting warmly. “All the best for 2015.”

“You too, my friend,” Mauricio’s smile arch, his tone dark. Jose raised his eyebrows and before he could respond, they were interrupted by the fourth official, who quickly went through what he expected from the coaches from behaviour to timeliness of substitutions. Mauricio knew the drill by now, and José did too, although he bristled at being spoken to by the match official like that, but everyone knew José’s history with the English FA.

***

**Tottenham Hotspur 5- 3 Chelsea**

"Three precious words down White Hart Lane: Spurs beat Chelsea. Precious, and rare." – Peter Drury.

Mauricio couldn’t help it, a smile playing across his lips, as the whistle blew signalling the end of the match.

White Hart Lane roaring its appreciation for the mighty effort of the Lillywhites. Mauricio turned to José, ready to dine on his victory, for it had been a long time in coming. Five years, two leagues, three teams, nine match-ups, only to win this one. 

Three points. 

José’s face shuttered as he looked at the pitch, and refused to look in Mauricio’s direction. Mauricio didn’t care. He got three points. 

“Congratulations,” José said, turning to give Mauricio a half hug, his lips brushing against Mauricio’s ear, his palm tapping against Mauricio’s cheek in a gentle slap. “Three points, you have claimed them.”

Mauricio felt José moving off, knowing that he’d hurry to the changing rooms, because José took to ground like a wounded animal when he lost. 

_Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco-_ Mauricio counted in his head, giving José time to disappear, and then, only then, he threw his fists up in triumph. 

“Yes!” Mauricio added his scream to the din, turning around to his three wise men, pumping his fist in triumph, his water bottle slipping from his fingers and bouncing on the ground. 

“We did it!” 

“Yes, yes,” Jesús grinned, his eyes wide with excitement and disbelief. “We did it, three points!”

It was that, yes. Three points against José was important, but Mauricio had gotten something even more imperative. It was a key win, a signal to his players that if they trusted in his way, it heralded greater things to come. He didn’t need José to tell him that, because he’d gotten one win against Pep Guardiola in 2009. 

**2010**  
“It was that win,” Mauricio said, reaching for his wallet to pay for the bill, their table now cleared, and the bill presented in a black folder. “That’s what proved to me that there’s a virtue in being brave.”

“ _’His teams, they look for you’_ ,” José quoted, and Mauricio felt his cheeks colour, at José remembering a quote from Pep Guardiola on Mauricio’s teams. Considering the history and the increasing tetchiness between Guardiola and Mourinho, for José to repeat Guardiola’s quote felt like an affirmation. “You’ll come and find me, eh Mauricio?”

“I know no other way.”

“Yet,” José replied holding up his hand in the universal sign of stop as Mauricio counted out his euros. “No, no, let me. It will be my pleasure to pay for the meal.”

Mauricio frowned, uneasy. “I’m the one who should pay, you’ve been direct and honest and -” _kind_ he wanted to say, but not knowing how José would take that, he finished with, “I like that.”

“You can thank me by winning the next time we meet. When you’ve won, you can buy me dinner then.”

“It will be difficult,” Mauricio admitted, “although not impossible. It might take a long time.”

“Or it might be next week,” José counted out five twenty euro notes and slipped it in the restaurant's bill fold. 

“It grows late, and we have to go, Mauricio. Shall I drop you off by your hotel?”

“No thank you, I will walk to my hotel, it’s not far.”

“If it pleases you,” José pushed away from the table, and Mauricio got to his feet, and it felt natural to embrace goodbye. With a last grin and wink, José grabbed his coat and exited the restaurant, leaving Mauricio behind. Mauricio thought about his small club, and Real Madrid, and the match they played tonight. Suffered when his players were locked down by the prowess and tactics of Real Madrid and José Mourinho, but this dinner, it was a nod in the right direction, no?

Mauricio sat down at the table, slipped an A6 sized notebook from his jacket pocket, slid the biro from its spiral, and started drawing up new tactics. 

Across the page, he wrote JOSÉ: THREE POINTS. 

END.

**Author's Note:**

>   * To quote from this article: Pochettino began his coaching career with Spanish club Espanyol in 2009 and on Thursday he described Mourinho as one of his first "references" as a manager. The following year, Mourinho took charge of Real Madrid and went on to beat Pochettino four times in La Liga. After one of their earliest meetings, Mourinho told Pochettino some home truths about management over a bottle of wine, an exchange that has shaped the Argentine's approach to younger coaches. [you can read the rest of the article here](http://www.espnfc.com/tottenham-hotspur/story/3015655/jose-mourinho-warned-mauricio-pochettino-of-coaching-perils-while-at-malaga)
>   * The match that's referred in this fic (the second scene where they speak about three points and Pochettino being taunted by it refers to [this entry](https://unamadridista.wordpress.com/2011/10/03/icymi-the-pipita-edition/). Pochettino and Mourinho were fast friends by then, linking arms to the match when Pochettino visited. 
>   * The things described in the fic about what Mourinho does during match days (doesn't wear cologne, etc) are supposedly true. He doesn't shave in order to give himself a tougher image, wears fine, simple knits (more when he's been at Inter and Real Madrid, more so than Chelsea and Manchester United where he has to wear their branded kit) to make himself invisible. He doesn't wear cologne on match days either. He also used to wear an ICW watch if I've read that correctly on match days (before his deal with Hublot, iirc)
> 

> 
> If you've gotten this far, thanks for reading!


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